That Last Great Day
by Elegiac
Summary: John Watson receives a call one day from Lestrade, offering him a position as a police medic. Though John doesn't see the need for one, he accepts. Combine that with Sherlock Holmes (a mysterious man named after a long dead violinist) and an encounter with a midnight jogger, John finds himself getting thrust into a world of darkness, violence, and not-so-fictional encounters.
1. It Truly is an Honor

**_One._**

He came down the steps carrying a cup of coffee and an excited smirk, walking briskly towards the cab. He was of average size and build with dark eyes and salt and pepper hair and wore simple white dress shirt and jacket, top button undone, with matching pants and dress shoes. Something about the way he drew is lips together or the way he carried himself suggested that he was maybe a little above the status of an average citizen, but other than that he was nothing special.

The cab door opened, and from within came out John Watson, smiling back. He lacked anything to mark him as something more than ordinary, save for the cane he was currently leaning upon. He was a modest man: the shirt underneath his jumper was buttoned to the top and very neat, his jacket collar raised slightly to cover the back of his neck further. His shoes were light brown and well kept and the dark pants were just as neat.

The man with the coffee stood before John. "Dr. John Watson?"

John nodded. "I take it you must be Mr. Greg Lestrade?"

He smiled a little more. "Most everyone calls me Lestrade." He held out a hand to shake. "It truly is an honor, thank you so much."

John took the hand, shook it. "An honor?"

"I was told you would be very well suited for the position." He paused for a moment. "Well, used to seeing people...-"

"Right. An honor." John became aware of he dog tags he had on underneath his shirt.

Lestrade drew his hand back, losing eye conact for a few moments before meeting John's gaze again. "I'm glad you made it back safely." He meant to say he was sorry.

"I am too." He gave him his forgiveness for not knowing better.

The two men were quiet for a few moments before Lestrade broke it. "Well, erm, Doctor, there are a few people inside who you should meet."

"Okay." John followed Lestrade into the hospital and into the morgue.

John had been back from Afghanistan for the better part of a two weeks and had been looking for a job when he recieved a call one day from the man who was currently leading him through the halls.

There was an opening for a fairly new position at the Yard, and upon hearing of John Watson's abilities with medicine Lestrade had tuned to him. He had described it as a police medic, mostly to take care of injuries and illnesses of solely the members of the force. Some big people said he was highly recommended, he had told John on the phone. There were a lot of people who wouldn't have minded having a man of his standing around to help out.

In all, the job sounded a little weird to John, but it had some kind of interesting draw to it. It was unique, different, and better than the cynical routine he had been caught up in since his return. Besides, he had wanted to do something medical anyway, and he idly thought that working with the police would be as close to the war as he could get in his current state.

They entered the morgue, walking past the empty examination tables into the lab, where a young woman was leaning over a microscope. She looked up as they entered and smiled when she noticed Lestrade. The woman had brown hair pulled out of her face in a simple ponytail. Underneath a white labcoat, she wore brightly patterned sweater and simple jeans and tennis shoes. Her round brown eyes reflected her personality: kind and friendly but also a little naive.

She backed away from the mircoscope to initate conversation. "Good morning, Lestrade," the woman said. "Erm, who's...?"

"Dr. John Watson," John cut in, holding out a hand.

The woman smiled as she took it. "Molly Hooper."

"Molly does most of our forensics tests at the Yard," Lestrade said. "You'll probably be seeing her often in the time to come."

"You're our new medic?" Molly's smile faded just a bit as she glanced quickly to Lestrade then back to John.

"Yeah, something like-"

John didn't have a chance to finish his sentence before the door suddenly flew open. A man entered, looking thoroughly annoyed as he carried a shoe box into the lab. He was tall and elegant, his features angular and yet very slender. His hair was dark and curly, bringing out his high cheekbones and cold eyes. His skin was a pallid shade with the dark circles around his eyes of someone who didn't have a very good sleeping pattern. The man's neck was adorned with a dark blue scarf, and he wore a long black trench coat with a faint metallic smell to it that currently had its collar turned up. He wore dark pants and shoes underneath, but John couldn't see much beyond that.

The man's words were cold, crisp, and had an almost frustrated sound to them. "I understand that taking a new employee on a tour is very demanding work, Gavin, but you could have glanced at your phone when he was shaking hands with Molly."

Lestrade gave a low sigh. "Greg. My name is Greg. And really, hardly anyone even calls me-"

"Not important." He handed the box to Molly. "The usual."

Molly blushed a little. "O-Okay," she stammered as he returned to the equipment.

"Anyways," Lestrade said, "what are you talking about?"

The man looked over at him. "I sent you a text message two minutes and fifteen seconds ago. You would have recieved it in approximately fourty-five seconds, meaning you have known of the message for a minute and thirty seconds and yet have made no attempt to contact- No, leave that alone." He reached over an took an object out of Molly's hands.

Lestrade rolled his eyes when the man turned to a microscope of his own. "Sorry. Heaven forbid I don't immeditely acknowledge you."

From the microscope, the man shot back, "You and your wife shouldn't stay up so late fighting. Caffiene can keep you alert, but obviously is doing nothing for your mood. Speaking of which, since you still haven't looked at your phone though I have mentioned its importance, if the brother has a green ladder then arrest him."

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something, but John stepped in between the banter. "Green?"

The man looked away from the microscope to meet John's gaze for a moment before returning back with a sigh. "Four months."

"Pardon?"

"Well, you are more used to violence the the last one was. He made it about two months, which actually suprised me. Then again, saying four months is being very generous to you too, seeing that you may be-"

"What are you talking about?" John demanded.

"Sherlock-" Lestrade warned.

The man let out a long sigh. "Maybe three. And for God's sakes, I'm talking about your expiration date. The last medic was killed two months in-"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade tried interuptting the man, but now he was on yet another roll.

John looked to Lestrade in shock. "You never mentioned a death."

The man, Sherlock, grinned. "Oh, it was absolutely fantastic, to be honest. You should have seen the spray-"

"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade shouted over the growing chaos. The lab fell silent. Molly, who had hardly said a word since Sherlock came in, stopped her work for a brief moment to look up at the three men.

Sherlock, looked at the detective for a moment before returning to the micoscope. "It was suicide, not my fault," he muttered viciously into the device.

Lestrade glared at Sherlock as he spoke to John. "I can assure you safety, Dr. Watson. What happened with our previous worker does not affect your task."

Sherlock bit his lip to hide a laugh. John watched him, becoming consumed with increasing and inexplicably founded disliking.

Lestrade cleared his throat, as if to signal that the converstion was going to change in topic. "Well, as you may have heard, John, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's one of our more... specialized detectives."

"'Consulting' detective," Sherlock interuptted quietly.

Ignoring him, Lestrade continued. "Sherlock, this is John Watson. Apparently you've already filled in the rest of his resume."

There was an awakward pause before Sherlock said, "Hi."

John shifted a little on his feet and Lestrade spoke. "Are you going to come over here?"

Sherlock looked at the detective. "Terribly sorry, not very good when it comes to human interaction. I prefer other drinks."

Molly tensed a little at his words but Lestrade remained cold, his fingers twitched slightly at his side. John noticed they had something like an annoyed warning in their faces. This must have been his desired reaction because Sherlock let a devious smirk slide onto his face as he turned back to the microscope.

John could feel an odd kind of tension between the three, as if they all had some unknown secret that he wasn't supposed to know about yet. John cleared his throat, and the moment passed, everyone but Sherlock returning to normal (he kept on smirking, pleased).

"Maybe we should go meet everyone else," Lestrade thought aloud.

"Yes, that sound's fantastic," Sherlock said.

Lestrade, now upset a little himself, turned and left the room without giving his goodbyes. John lingered for a moment.

"It was nice meeting you, Molly Hooper." John turned to Sherlock. "And you too, Sherlock Holmes."

John was about to leave when he heard a voice. "John."

It was Sherlock. He turned and saw that the man had stood and approached him. John flinched a little at his sudden presence.

Sherlock ignored it and pressed onward. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John looked at him in surprise. "What?"

"It's a simple question."

John, still shocked, said, "Afghanistan. Now could you tell me how-?"

Sherlock regarded the doctor with a smirk. "That's what I thought. I will be seeing you, Doctor." He turned and went back to his microscope, ignoring any attempt John might have made at conversation. He looked to Molly for n explanation, but she remained quiet.

John left the lab and found Lestrade not far from the door himself. He waited to speak until they were out of the morgue entirely.

"I am so, so sorry about that," Lestrade broke in. "He has the tendency to do that kind of thing all the time, I didn't think he was going to be so..."

"Unreasonable?" John filled in.

"Something like that." They continued walking. "I've personally known Sherlock for about five years, and once you get past all of that he's actually pretty manageable."

"It really wasn't any bother," John said. "Um, did you perchance mention him to me?" Lestrade shook his head. John sighed. "He asked about where I served, I just figured you may have..."

"No, he has a knack for figuring out those kind of things." Lestrade looked at his empty coffee cup. "I hope it's not going to be a problem, but... You will be doing most of your work with him. I mean, you'll take care of everyone, but Sherlock is one of our bigger concerns in that area."

"Oh." John felt a tiny bit of dread as he thought of all the fun he was going to share with the man.

Lestrade felt like he needed to explain himself a little further. "It's ridiculous, I know, but he specified it himself, and with his certain conditions I just figured-"

John stopped him. "Really, it's no bother. I'm sure we'll get along just fine."

Lestrade sighed, and as they passed a trash can he threw away his cup. "Right."

-x-

It was evening, and John had returned to his flat an hour ago. After their adventures at the morgue, Lestrade had taken him to the actual station to meet a few other people. When they finally reached John's flat, Lestrade told him he would be starting tomorrow officially. For the first few days he would be down with Molly until they got a space together at the station. Like most everything else in the job description, it seemed odd, but John simply pushed the thoughts from his mind and kept reminding himself of the escape from the old routine.

He fixed himself a cup of tea, not particularly hungry that night. As he sat in his chair, he found his mind kept drifting back to Sherlock Holmes. He was sure he would be able to adjust to his odd ways, but that didn't mean he particularly liked him. Sherlock seemed like he would be more of a downfall than a perk to his job.

John was struck with a sudden curiosity as he thought of him. He wondered...

John grabbed his laptop and returned to his chair, booting up the machine. He opened a search engine and typed in the mans name. As the results popped up, John realized why he had thought the name was familiar.

Among the list of web images, memorials, and song downloading websites, John clicked on the top link, a biography site, and was directed to a page about William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He was a skilled violinist who was born in 1718 and lived until 1750, having met an untimely and unexplained death in the middle of his music career at the age of thirty-two. As far as Classical music was concerned, he was widely unknown but had just as much skill as some of the other more noted composers like Bach and Mozart. John's mother had often made him listen to his music as a child, which led to John actually kind of liking his music himself for a few years before moving on to more modern groups.

John scrolled through the pictures, clicking on an old painting of the musician. William appeared to be looking at something beyond the artist, his eyes crinkling a little in the corners at the beginning of smile, which gave him an almost innocence as it crept onto his face. He had his almond brown hair back out of his face to expose his elegant features. He was standing, dressed in shades of blue and gray typical for the period. In his hands he held his prized violin, patterned with a very distinct and unique ivy pattern on its sides.

John looked at the picture with a nostalgic sigh, the musician bringing back to him memories of childhood and also thoughts of the man from the morgue. He imagined his parents must have been fans themselves and named their son after the long dead musician as a form of tribute. John nearly laughed out loud as he thought about what the poor boy's childhood must have been like. Perhaps Sherlock was bullied much like John was, though perhaps not about the same issues.

John didn't realize how late it had become, and as he scrolled he felt his eyelids becoming heavy. He set the computer off to the side, rubbing his eyes, and slowly sleep overtook him as he sat in the chair.

...

It was just passing midnight as the bells of Big Ben began to die away, and as they did a melody started up. Slow, dark, and haunting, the notes awoke John from his sleep. At first he thought he was just imagining things, but he heard the distant song becoming not so distant as he approached his window. He opened it, his sweat beaded forehead cooling in the gently night breeze. A silhouetted turned at the beginning of the street, playing the melody which currently was charming John's ears. He lived on a less populated street in London, and the street lights where far and few in this specific area, meaning John's eyes had to adjust to the darkness a little more to see the silhouette more clearly.

It was obviously a male, and John couldn't help but notice that he had a certain otherworldly grace to the way he walked. The man stopped walking long enough to look up to John whose heart stopped at the sudden realization that he had been spotted. He remained motionless until he suddenly was struck wit the desire to go down to meet the man. He reached out blindly for his cane and left his post, fueled by a childish kind of curiosity as he walked quickly down the steps and out onto the sidewalk where he stood.

The melody finished, and in the near dark John began to speak.


	2. People Might Talk

_**Two.**_

As John opened his mouth to speak, he found his opposite beat him to words.

"Terribly sorry! I hope I didn't alarm you. I just can't these bloody headphones to work..." His words had an almost foreign way of falling- Irish, maybe?

"Oh." John laughed a little. "I thought you were actually playing..."

It was the man's turn to laugh. "What, me? Oh, no, I wish! I'm just a listener. Usually I have myself more in order, but a friend got these things for me and I wanted to try them. I didn't wake you or anything, right?"

"No, I was up anyway. Don't worry." John was lying, but even in the dark he could tell the man was a little flustered and kind of embarassed.

"If I could just get to a light- These bloody streetlamps are being ridiculous tonight-"

John, trying to be helpful, offered, "If you need a light, my flat's just right here..."

The man shook his head. "Oh, really, I would feel absolutely dreadful imposing on you! I'll just go find-"

"No, really, it's no trouble. So long as you don't mind coming inside for a few minutes."

"I suppose... I will only be a few minutes, I swear."

John led the man to the door, and entered. The man hesitated just outside the door.

"This should be enough," he said.

"Nonsense," John replied. "Come inside, I insist."

The man entered, and in the dim anteroom's light John took in his appearance. The man had short, dark hair that he often ran his hands through, and his face was clear and clean shaven. He was dressed in a white shirt that had several buttons going up the front that he wore underneath a dark colored buttonless cardigan, along with stonewashed jeans and new looking red Converse. Around his neck was a pair of bulky headphones.

The man continued to speak as they climbed up the handful of steps. "So, um, are you new here? I don't think I've ever seen you out around here."

"Yeah, fairly," John replied, trying not to look slow with his cane. "I was serving for a while out in Afghanistan."

The man laughed. "You didn't need to go that far. Plenty of wars closer to home that we should fight before worrying ourselves with other countries, don't you think?"

John glanced at the man with an intrigued respect. "I never got your name." He opened the flat door.

The man smiled. "Jim Moriarty. Hi."

"John Watson. Nice meeting you."

Jim followed John into the flat, and inside John directed him to the sofa. John moved his laptop onto his desk and took his cup into the kitchen for some more tea, filling a cup for Jim as he did. "Have a seat. You can warm up a little; isn't it a little cold for a walk this late?"

"Not really, I love the cold. That, and I do this kind of thing every night," Jim replied from the sofa. "I guess you could call me an insomniac, except for the fact that I sleep through most of the day, so more of a night owl than anything."

John returned with the cups. "I see."

Jim glanced up from his headphones and the color drained from is face. "Oh, John, really, you shouldn't have."

"It's no trouble."

"No, I mean you really..." Jim met his eyes. "I'm being impolite, but I absolutely cannot stand tea. Of any kind."

John looked at the cup. "Oh, erm, I'm sorry, I just kind of-"

Jim shook his head. "No, John, I'm sorry, because you're being so kind and I hate to be inconsiderate."

John set his cup aside. "I can go get you something else. What would you like?"

With a serious expression, Jim replied, "Some O positive would be super." He let a few moments pass before breaking out into a grin. "Kidding, kidding, your face is so cute, though."

John laughed a little, unsure. "So no drink, then?"

Jim shook his head. "No thanks."

John sat down, watching Jim as he turned over the headphones in his hands. "Figuring it out?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, I think I've almost-" He plugged them in to his mobile. "Oh, oh yes, this is nice." He smiled, humming a little to the music as he paused the song and took off the headphones.

"Staying Alive?" John guessed.

Jim broke out into a full on smile, exposing pristine teeth. "Indeed it is, my dear Watson. Thank you for letting me figure this out, I appreciate it, I really do." He stood, the headphones on the sofa, to shake John's hand.

"I'm glad my light could help," John replied as he followed, taking his hand. He made a move to pull it away, but Jim remained firm in grip. John just continued smiling, trying not to be alarmed.

Jim looked deep into his eyes, the smile fading quickly as he did. "Do me one more favor... Don't hit that coffee table of yours on the way down."

"Coffee-?" Jim suddenly moved his leg and knocked John's legs out from underneath him. He hit the hardwood, the back of his head slamming hard on the ground. He opened his eyes, vision blurry, and saw Jim overtop over top of him, pinning him down. A sadistic smile was on his face now, and wih a loud slam John heard the flat door close and lock.

"Wouldn't want someone to walk in on us, would we? People might talk."

John began fighting under his grasp. "Let me go!" he said at a borderline shout. He was about to yell when Jim suddenly covered his mouth, holding his two wrists down now with one hand.

"Hush now love, you're going to spoil my fun." Jim brought his face so close to John's their noses nearly touched. "I mean, really; you only get to die once in your life." A low hiss escaped Jim's lips as he suddenly leaned down and bit John's neck.

From under the hand John screamed, the sound almost animal in nature. He struggled fiercely under Jim's grip but the man would push back harder. The pain was unlike anything John had ever felt, far more than even that of his war injuries.

John flung his leg out hard enough to be free from Jim's hold, and in a moment he bent it and drove his knee into his stomach with force. The man lost his grip on Johns throat in surprise and rolled quickly recovering as he reached out for John's shirt. John sat up, trying but failing to avoid Jim's hands as they grabbed his collar and pulled him back down.

"Try that again, I dare you," Jim said with a vicious drawl, blood dripping from his mouth onto his shirt. Then he smiled again as he traced John's jawline with a bloodstained finger before going back greedily for another drink. John fought again but found he did not have as much energy as he once did. He felt lightheaded as Jim finally drew away. He licked the blood from John's neck and a shiver ran through the doctor's body, his mind racing as he lay in a growing pool of his blood.

"This has been fun, hasn't it? Aren't you having fun?" Jim wiped his crimson mouth with the back of his hand. "I love B negative. It really is a delightful treat when you come across it." John found he had a lack of words, only pain as he bled out.

Jim sighed. "Well, as much fun as it would be to watch you die, I'm afraid I better be off." The man stood, walking to the sofa to fetch his belongings. "I do applaud you, John Watson. You're a fighter. I would adore having a cutie like you around." He looked down at the man with a smile, thinking. As he turned on his heels to go towards the door John reached out and grabbed his ankle. Jim looked down, curious but upset he was getting blood all over his pants.

"Let me go, John," he commanded.

"Who the hell do you think you are..." John asked weakly between his shaking breaths.

Jim laughed. "Not a bedtime story, that's for sure." He leaned down and kissed the man's forehead before kicking him hard in the stomach. John curled into the fetal position with a cry.

Jim unlocked the door and opened it, turning back to John before he left. "I wish we could have met under different circumstances. Perhaps I will see you one day soon. Or not." Jim sighed. "Goodbye, John Watson." He smiled happily before slamming the door with a clap of rolling thunder. John heard him as he walked out of the building, whistling to his music as he did.

John moaned in agony, pressing his hand down onto his neck in an effort to stop the bleeding. He rolled onto his back, staring at the moving ceiling as he struggled to keep conscious. Somewhere in the struggle they had hit the coffee table, and the tea had spilled over the side and mixed with the spreading red stain on the floor. He tried to crawl to the closet for his medical supplies but he was weak and lacked the strength it would take to make it there, open the door, and find the supplies to help himself. John reached up onto the coffee table for his mobile and failed, the damn thing not being in his reach, like always.

So much red.

John closed his eyes as he realized for the second time in his life that he was going to die. Except the first time, a young lad had been there to carry him to the medical tent. There was no help now, though, no one there to save him. He was going to die alone and without any chance to say goodbye. He could feel blood or sweat or maybe tears on his face that he did not wipe away. He was going to die.

John opened his eyes again as he stared at the floor, the ground moving and swirling into impossible shapes. He fell into a kind of crimson static that lasted for what felt like eternity until that was gone too and John descended into black. In the cool midnight, John welcomed Death as an equal.


	3. Soldier in a Very Different War

_**Three.**_

"... no signs of forced entry, so he let the killer in. Typically polite behavior, so either letting in family or trying to help someone. Judging by the flat and the mobile, he doesn't have much family, extended or immediate, that he would do that kind of thing for, so helping someone. Late night jogger perhaps-"

The voice kept on speaking as John suddenly came back to the world of the living, unexpectedly alive. He furrowed is brow slightly, confused. He had died, he was sure of that. Every moment of the incident hit him with vivid clarity- the blood, Jim's parting words, the blackness of his mind and the premature winter that covered his body in icy frost- and yet he could hear his heartbeat, feel the air filling his oxygen deprived lungs as his body struggled to restart.

How the hell...?

He became suddenly aware of the burning feeling on his neck and of the terrible headache that suddenly plagued him. He tensed a little on the hardwood, a low moan escaping his lips as he rolled over onto his back.

The voice grew suddenly quiet, as did the rest of the room.

"You said he was dead," a new voice said, almost scared.

"Impossible. There's too much blood loss for him to be-"

John opened his eyes and with blurry vision looked at the ceiling. He took in a shaky breath, his ears now ringing as his senses struggled to take in everything happening around him. A moment or so later there were dark shapes around him. He blinked, his vision clearing, to see Sherlock Holmes and a horrified Lestrade standing over him.

"…Why are you guys in my flat?" John asked weakly.

Lestrade and Sherlock exchanged a look before Lestrade turned to leave at a run, calling out for a medic to get upstairs.

Sherlock bent down by John, taking his pulse. For the first time in his life Sherlock was at a loss for words. John looked over at him. "You didn't answer me," John said.

"It's a crime scene," Sherlock replied, still surprised. "A minute ago I was looking at a dead body."

John noticed his gaze falling on his neck. Sherlock recovered, regarded John grimly before saying in a low voice, "John, before they get up here, I need you to do something for me."

"Okay…?"

Sherlock looked deep into John's eyes. "When you get to the hospital, tell them you were knocked unconscious and know nothing about the marks on your neck." He was speaking quickly, helping John to a sitting position to look occupied.

John looked over to Sherlock. "Why?"

"John, you need to trust me when I say that if you don't the results will be catastrophic." From the stairwell came the sounds of approaching people.

"Say it," Sherlock said sharply.

"I don't know anything about my neck wounds," John echoed quietly.

"Good." John felt a sudden prick in his arm and was overcome with a heavy drowsiness. "Don't worry, you're just going to be out for a bit- Lestrade, he's going unconscious again!"

John felt heavy in Sherlock's arms, and he looked up at the detective with confusion as he felt hands grabbing him to lift him onto a stretcher.

"You know something," he said quietly as he left Sherlock's arms. John saw the detective smirk a little as he fell into black once again.

-x-

It was late morning when Sherlock strolled into the hospital room. John had been up for a bit and his nurse wouldn't be back in to check on him for a little while. He looked up from the book he had been given to read when Sherlock entered. John closed it and set it aside, glad to have a reason to not look like he enjoyed doing nothing in a hospital bed. He had been told once doctors made terrible patients, and after that morning he understood why. Too many times he had tried helping or offering his opinion and he was sure now that he had thoroughly annoyed practically the entire medical staff on that floor.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said.

Sherlock looked at him. "Hello, John." he said. "How are you?"

John regarded the man with a slightly annoyed gaze. Judging by the IV in his arm that was administering him blood and perpetual lightheadedness he suffered from, it should have been rather obvious he wasn't feeling very well at all. "Fantastic."

Sherlock came a little closer to his bed, his voice dropping slightly in volume. "I hope you did what I asked you to."

John sighed. When he had awoken again they had asked him a few times about his neck, and as instructed he told them all Sherlock's lie. "Can you tell me why exactly I had to do that?"

Sherlock stared intently at John, silent. He turned and sat in the chair in the corner of the room, his hands pressing against one another as the tips of his fingers rested underneath his chin. "You need to tell me a few things first."

"Like?"

"The name." Sherlock's gaze didn't waver as John looked back in confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

Sherlock sighed slightly. "John, I will ignore that last question because you have only just met me and you lack understanding of my methods. People come to me whenever they have a case they would like solved-"

"I don't have anything I need you to solve," John interrupted. "I don't have anything anyone needs to-"

"Let me rephrase my statement: I have I case for myself I want to solve and you are a key component to me doing that. However, John Watson, you are dying, and before you do I would like to know who put you in this unfortunate condition so I can stop this from happening to someone else."

There was silence before, "What?"

"John, think: you were bit, had your blood sucked out of your neck, but you're still alive. It's really not that hard to imagine what situation we are going to find you in very soon. Now, name."

"Are you serious?" John looked at Sherlock, who only returned the look with a blank stare. "Are you trying to tell me I was attacked by...?" John laughed, shaking his head. "This is ridiculous."

Sherlock's hands dropped a little. "I am not a humorous person, John. I don't joke."

"No?" John laughed again. "Okay, so is this the part in your little game where the cameras come out and everyone gets a good laugh at the guy in the ICU?"

"I am not kidding around. It bothers me a little that you don't believe-"

"Sherlock, what you're suggesting is fiction and I have seen too much reality to believe in something like that."

Sherlock laughed coldly. "You've seen it yourself and you still call it fiction?"

"I call it impractical and childish and absolutely ridiculous!" John shot back. "Of all the people in the world I could be having this conversation with, I can honestly say you were the last person I expected, especially given everything I have seen you do so far with your massive intellect!"

"Everything you've seen me do?"

"For God's sakes, you took one bloody look at me and you were asking me about where I had served! And now you're trying to tell me I was the victim of some kind of paranormal attack!"

"Actually, that's incorrect," Sherlock replied. "You see, the word "Paranormal" refers to something that's not understood by current scientific knowledge; there's the potential that something paranormal will someday be explained scientifically. "Supernatural" pertains to being above or beyond what is natural, unexplainable by natural law or phenomena. Characteristic for phenomena claimed as supernatural are anomaly, uniqueness and uncontrollability, thus lacking reproducibility required for scientific examination. So, rather than a "paranormal attack", as you said it, it's more of a "supernatural attack" than anything paranormal will ever be."

"Does it really matter?!" John replied.

"Well, I can't let you go running around using incorrect terminology, if that's what your asking."

John sighed. "Supernatural, paranormal, it doesn't matter because I will not believe for one second that this was the work of a vampire." The last word was heavy in the air.

Sherlock looked away from John for a moment, looking at something outside the window. "We've gone off subject, and my patience is quickly growing thin. I need to know the name, John."

"Not until I hear you say it wasn't a vampire."

"John."

"You cannot sit there and blame this on-"

"Give me THE NAME!" Sherlock's sudden anger silenced John for a bit. He too looked out the window, seeing everything but nothing all at once. "He told me his name was Jim."

There was a pause before Sherlock asked, "Did he perchance give a last name?"

The image of a bloody man with dark eyes invaded John's mind as he heard once more the sound of his Irish words. "Jim Moriarty," John said aloud. Hi, answered back the image as John forced it from his mind, returning back Sherlock.

"Moriarty." Sherlock looked lost in thought for a moment before he rose from the chair. He looked back at John, speaking once more. "Let me be the first and last to say that you have made a great contribution in aiding me. Unfortunately, that means that you are no longer of much use to me. In fact, you and I are now enemies, it seems."

"I have done nothing against you!" John protested angrily.

"No, you haven't, have you?" Sherlock regarded him in silence for a moment. "You yourself did nothing wrong, John Watson, so don't hold yourself accountable. This was an attack meant to affect me, not you, and now you're laying half dead in a hospital bed. The change you would go through over the next few days isn't your fault, nor is it anything you and I could have stopped. The only crime you are guilty of is being used as a pawn in a game I have been part of for a very long time. However, that doesn't change your current situation. I have to bring this particular matter to an end, and because of that I cannot let you walk out this room alive." He shrugged. "Though, if it counts for anything, I'm sure you would have saved a lot of valuable lives if you had been our police medic. Shame."

John's face began to drain of color as he understood the man's words. "You can't just kill me," he said, his words becoming desperate.

"Well, I can kill you. I am a Hunter, after all. But you are correct," Sherlock began unbuttoning his coat, "my other tools would be pretty useless on you. However-" The coat opened and on the inside John saw several little pockets with items inside of them. On Sherlock's belt was a gun holster with loaded pistol and also several stakes. From one of the pockets he fished out a long case with a syringe full of clear liquid inside of it.

"You're still human enough to be poisoned. Don't give me that look- I'm not a monster. It's very potent and fast-acting, so you won't feel any pain at all." Sherlock fixed his coat then moved towards John.

John's eyes widened in panic as he struggle to untangle himself from his sheets. He pulled the IV out of his arm as he moved towards the end of the bed to get past the railing. Sherlock reached out to grab him but John had fallen onto the floor, his legs unprepared to do any movement. John pushed himself up to a standing position but it was too late. The detective grabbed him by the arm and turned it over to expose his forearm.

John cried out, jerking back. He elbowed the man hard in the stomach and Sherlock's hand loosened just enough for John to pull away. He delivered a hard punch to his face and sent him staggering backwards. Moving past him, John opened the door and fled the room, panicked.

"JOHN!" he heard Sherlock calling out to him but he kept going, not looking back, adrenaline pumping through his body as he rushed past doctors and nurses in his hospital gown. He had regained practically all of his blood, so the sudden physical activity would not cause him to pass out, but he was still very lightheaded and as a result most everything around him was hard to focus on and seemed to be almost blotted out by the growing white light in his vision. He was short of breath when he found his way to a stairwell, his bare feet pounding on the cold metal steps as he ran for his life- well, what remained of it.

Ironically, taking the job of a police medic really did bring John closer to the war. Except in that moment as he ran from Sherlock, bite marks underneath his bandaged neck, it occurred to him that John was now a soldier in a very different war.


End file.
